


Perhaps

by johnsjumpers



Category: Hannibal (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:06:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsjumpers/pseuds/johnsjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock meets Dr. Hannibal Lecter while consulting on an FBI case for Mycroft. Just a quick one-shot in Hannibal's office, with witty banter and a paperweight containing an amygdala.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perhaps

**Author's Note:**

> I was feeling the urge to write a Hannibal/Sherlock crossover, so here it is. Shoutout to caffinatedscribbler, itsmeadambenjamin, maiar-of-aule, and swirlsofblackandwhite on tumblr for encouraging this. Enjoy!

    The office is immaculate. Sherlock expected no less. He’s had years of experience with psychiatrists, and they all have two things in common: condescending smiles and disgustingly clean offices. This one seems to have the added advantage of a library, but he isn’t holding out hope that this Dr. Lecter will be anything particularly special. The man worked with the FBI, for heaven’s sake, and Mycroft had probably picked out this case especially because it means Sherlock will have to spend the majority of his time dealing with paperwork and Americans. He’s contemplating stealing a paperweight that appears to have a preserved human amygdala in it when he hears the rush of air that an opening door makes

“I had an interesting conversation with your brother the other day,” a calming voice says from behind him.

“You do mean Mycroft when you say my brother, right?” Sherlock shoots back.

“Of course I mean Mycroft,” the voice replies. “I was under the impression he was your only brother.”

“He is, but you said the conversation was interesting, so I figured it would be prudent to check.

“Oh, he mentioned you were like this.” Sherlock turns around, still clutching the paperweight. The man was put together in a way that made everyone else in the room feel like that were in their pajamas. He had bright eyes, but there was no sign of the expected condescending smile. He moved around the office with an understated grace. It was obvious why Mycroft liked the man.

“Did he now?”

“He also mentioned you had something of a sidekick. John, was it?”

“John is hardly a sidekick. Sidekicks don’t wander off as much as he seems to.”

“Yes, Jack tells me he seemed to take a liking to one of the pathologists back at the crime lab.”

“Well, it’s a bit of a habit with him. Speaking of Agent Crawford, has he figured it out yet?”

“Beg pardon?” This is the exasperating part. Sherlock has no patience for clever people acting like idiots to try to play some sort of game.

“I assume you’ve invited him over for dinner. Did he notice?”

“Oh, you’re very good.”

“Yes, I know, and you are too, so I have to ask you, Dr. Lecter, why dangle it in front of their faces? We both know you’re in it for the snacks and not the glory, so why play games?”

“Do you really not know?” Hannibal says with a smile that can only be seen in his eyes. Here goes the pedantic psychiatrist-speak that Sherlock is all too familiar with. If the man is clever enough to serve an FBI agent a human liver, he’s clever enough to see that Sherlock’s patience is wearing thin. The detective decides not to dignify the question with a response. Of course he knows. Instead, he picks up the case file and noisily flips through the luridly detailed crime scene photos Mycroft had sent him. It’s not until he feels Hannibal’s breath on the back of his neck that he realizes the good doctor has been watching the photos over his shoulder as he turns through them. There’s a glint in Hannibal’s eye that’s usually reserved for fathers watching their children on bikes or painters walking into a gallery of their own work for the first time.

A knock on the door interrupts the moment, and Dr. Lecter moves swiftly across the office, no evidence of what has just transpired on his face. A woman leans her head in the door, but her face is obscured by a mass of red curls. She gives the room a once over, sees Sherlock and inhales sharply.

“Isn’t he the one who jumped off the building?” she says to Hannibal.

“I believe so,” the doctor replies curtly, obviously asking her to leave with everything but his mouth.

“My friend Kitty told me about you,” she says more loudly, and more pointedly towards Sherlock.

“Ah, yes, how is Ms. Riley?” Sherlock bites out. If this woman is friends with that pathetic excuse for a journalist, she knows exactly what Sherlock thinks of her.

“Sitting pretty, ever since she broke that story about you and your big set-up. She explained it all to me. Consulting with the agency that’s trying to find the killer of your victims? Poetic, if you ask me.” Sherlock has to actively try to avoid the look he knows Hannibal is giving him, because if for any reason their eyes meet, no excuse in the world will be able to explain the smiles on their faces.

“If that’s all, Ms. Lounds…” Hannibal says quietly, gesturing towards the door.

“Of course, Doctor, I was just looking for Will.”

“Will isn’t here now, and I’m certain that you know that.” He says to her like he would to a child. She winks, and leaves in a swirl of bright hair and winter coat. Sherlock makes sure the door is closed before he raises an eyebrow.

“Will?” he asks Hannibal.

“He’s also a consultant of sorts. I think you two would get along rather well, actually.”

“I’m sure we would,” Sherlock replies dismissively, not bothering to hide the fact that he has absolutely no intention of finding or befriending this ‘Will’. “I do have just one question, doctor, and then I’m afraid I must leave you and your delightful office.” Hannibal smiles at him, and walks over to take the paperweight from Sherlock’s hand.

“It’s rather fragile, and I’d be devastated if anything were to happen to it,” he explains before placing back on the side table.

“Of course,” Sherlock says. “But, as I was saying, I’m afraid my brother is expecting a report from me upon my return, and although I’d love to explain to him all about your restaurant of horrors, I’m sure you have some opinion about what I should tell him so you can keep up your little game. I have no doubts that you will be caught at some point, and I’m in a bit of a rush to end this today, so if you’d be so kind as to furnish me with an excuse, I have a plane to catch.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something to tell him.”

“My brother, for all his flaws, is actually a clever man, as much as it pains me to admit it.”

“So tell him something clever, then.”

Before Sherlock can reply, his phone dings in his pocket. He checks the screen quickly. Apparently John has gotten the pathologist’s phone number and is on his way back to the hotel. He jumps on the opportunity to leave. As entertaining as the doctor is, Sherlock can’t help but feel that time spent in this man’s presence it time spent dangerously.

“I had better be off,” Sherlock says as he moves to pick his scarf and coat up from where they lay across the room. Mycroft will just have to accept that that this case might take longer than he, or probably his superiors, had hoped.

“Are you sure I can’t persuade you or stay for dinner?” Hannibal asks as Sherlock knots his scarf.

“You do seem rather interesting, doctor, but I’m afraid I never eat while I’m working.”

“A shame. I would so love to cook for you. Perhaps another time, then.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock replies, and with that, he is gone.


End file.
